


Elsewhere

by mayyouwalk



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22059676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayyouwalk/pseuds/mayyouwalk
Summary: the roadtrip that wasn't to the future in mexico that never happened
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 9
Kudos: 126





	Elsewhere

**Author's Note:**

> uh, so. i wrote part of this back when 7x10 aired, so it's AU as of that ep. and it's obviously hopelessly outdated now, especially given what's been going on in season 10 (which is, frankly, probably the best we can hope for) but here's what i hoped for way back at the end of 2016.
> 
> also it's technically still 2019 here on the east coast, so i can pretend i didn't go a whole year without posting anything, christ.

  
About an hour outside of Illinois, Ian gets a text from Mandy.

  
_be careful._

  
Ian frowns at the screen. Types _?_ then deletes it, thumbs the call button.

  
"Didn't have to call me, asshole," Mandy mumbles, and her voice is like shitty weed and shittier beer and late nights on park swings, so infused with home his mouth is already twitching into a smile. They keep in better touch these days, but it's mostly texting; Ian hasn't actually spoken to her in months.

  
"I do when you send me cryptic text messages," Ian says. From the driver's seat Mickey quirks an eyebrow at him; Ian waves him off.

  
"Cops showed up at my house a few days ago," Mandy says lightly, and Ian feels his stomach tense. Over the line he hears the _snnk_ of a lighter and Mandy's brief inhale, exhale. "Pigs are even dumber than I thought if they think he'd come here. Only one place he'd go to. Well, one person."

  
"Yeah." Ian closes his eyes, leans his head back against the headrest. He wants to tell Mandy everything—7 years and he still hasn't outgrown that impulse. 

  
"Look, just..." Mandy pauses, and Ian can picture her so clearly—glaring at her cigarette like it was the cause of her problems, brow furrowed, black hair tied back in a messy ponytail. No, blonde hair. Shit. He keeps forgetting. "Just tell shithead to be careful too, ok?"

  
"I will," Ian promises. "Miss you."

  
"Yeah, yeah," Mandy says, and Ian translates: Miss you too. 

  
"Mandy says hi," Ian says after he hangs up. Mickey laughs.

  
"She fucking does not," he says, no room for argument, so Ian just goes back to staring at the fields rolling past out the window, green and wild.

_

  
Ian thinks about that night, that first night by the docks, Mickey under him. He was still shaking from his orgasm (good, so good, he feels it in his bones and the back of his teeth) when he went to pull back from where he was slumped over Mickey's back. Mickey's hand had shot out, clawed at his forearm.

  
"Just—not yet." Mickey mumbled. "Hang on a sec."

  
"We gotta move, man," Ian had said in his ear, but the second Mickey asked Ian knew he would stay, right there, as long as Mickey wanted him to.

  
"You got somewhere else to be?" Mickey snapped, then winced, turned his face away. Ian kissed his tight jaw, held him around the middle until Mickey relaxed under him, sure of himself once again. 

  
He watches Mickey now, from the passenger's seat, while he talks about the future. Their future. Tequila and flip flops and the ocean. Ian doesn't think he ever remembers Mickey talking this much, feels like he has to relearn Mickey all over again, and maybe that's not a bad thing, So many false starts, they have to be due one that sticks, right?

  
"You ever been in the ocean?" Mickey is asking him, and Ian shakes his head. "Me either. Colin has, used to take trips with this rich chick he got with one summer? Mandy and me, we used to beg him to take us along, I’m talking fucking _pleading_." He shrugs. "We were little, then."

  
Ian racks his brain but he can't come up with a single other time Mickey's volunteered information about his childhood, let alone a semi-happy memory. He wonders if Mickey's just nervous, bluffing by talking too much, or if this is a thing he does now, say what's on his mind. 

  
"You're quiet," Mickey says, when Ian doesn't respond. 

  
"Just thinking." He wonders how different he is, now, too. "There's supposed to be good barbecue in Texas, we should stop." 

  
"Fuck yeah." Mickey grins at him, blinding, and because some things never change, Ian's stomach flips and trips over itself. Nothing to do but smile back.

  
-

  
Somewhere along the way, Ian realizes that Mickey'd never been in jail that long before. He'd been in and out of juvie, yeah, but two years in jail? Christ. And Mickey can handle it because he handles everything, but after Dom is gone, left somewhere in a stretch of dust, Ian starts to see the cracks. 

  
One night in a shitty motel, he wakes suddenly to find Mickey sitting on the edge of the bed, framed in moonlight, back to Ian, shaking. 

  
Ian doesn't know what to do, but after staring at Mickey’s spine, too visible through the thin fabric of the t-shirts they'd picked up a pack of at Target, Ian whispers his name.

  
Mickey jumps, even though Ian was trying hard not to startle him, and swipes at his own face before turning around.

  
"Shit, sorry," Mickey says, in a harsh whisper even though it's only the two of them in the room. "Thought you were asleep."

  
And Ian—he doesn't know what to say. It feels a little like when he first met Mickey, when they first started up together, and Ian had to carefully pick his way through the minefields that were their conversations. He'd talk a lot, sure, but he usually knew what not to say. Now he's not so sure. He's tired of hurting people, Mickey especially. So he doesn't say anything, just holds his arms out and waits patiently for Mickey to fold himself back into them, hopes he has enough in him for times like this: when he has to be the one holding them up.

  
-

  
Trevor calls him when they're a day away from the border. Mickey's asleep in the passenger's seat, having finally let Ian drive a little, and Ian keeps his voice down when he answers.

  
"Hey guy," Trevor says, and Ian can't read anything in his tone. "Went by your house earlier. Your family said you've been MIA the past couple days."

  
"Yeah, I…” Ian starts, then stops. He doesn't want to lie to Trevor; he misses him, his sharp tongue and warm eyes, the way his face gets all flushed when he yells, or when Ian goes down on him. "Yeah."

  
"You coming back?"

  
Ian closes his eyes. He's avoided asking himself this question so far. He thinks he knows his answer, but part of him... 

  
Part of him is waiting for the snap, the one that'll catch him and sling him back home. Like he's got a invisible bungee cord around his waist and it's anchored to that house on North Wallace. He leaves, needs to leave, has to leave, but he gets to a certain place or distance and—snap—he's on his way back.

  
He’s so, so tired of it.

  
Ian opens his eyes, finds himself glancing over at Mickey, arms folded over his chest, neck bent awkwardly to rest his head against the window. Ian knows he sleeps silently, no snoring. Back when they lived together, when Ian was up all hours, he would sometimes put his hand in front of Mickey’s mouth to make sure he was still breathing, or stare at him until he saw the slow rise and fall of his chest. He wonders if it’s a defensive thing, if Mickey’s always slept like that or if he learned to—one less thing for a bunk mate in lockup to take issue with. He wonders if that’s something Mickey would tell him now, if he asked. 

  
He’s been quiet for too long, but Trevor hasn't said anything else. "No, I don't think so. Not for a while, anyway."

  
There's silence on the other end of the line. Then—

  
"He must be some guy, Red," Trevor says, and this time Ian thinks he sounds fond.

  
Ian exhales, a weight he didn't know was there lifting itself off his chest. "He really is."

  
They chat for a little while longer, Trevor telling him about the latest horror story at the center, and Ian hangs up smiling.

  
"That the boyfriend?” Mickey says, and Ian jumps.

  
"Didn't know you were awake,” he mumbles, fumbling to slide his phone back into his pocket and keep his eyes on the road.

  
"Mm,” Mickey says. “Hard to sleep with you yapping.” 

  
"Ah.”

  
"He ask you to come back?” Mickey asks. His voice is quiet, but level. He sounds resigned, but maybe Ian’s imagining that. 

  
"Nope, just asked if I was planning to.”

  
"Are you?”

  
"Mickey,” Ian says, exasperated. He knows he probably doesn't have the right to be, but, fuck, he’s here, right? He’s here. That should count for something.

  
"Hey, I’ll stop asking questions when you actually start answering ‘em.”

_  
Whatcha doing here then? Gonna see you again? This goodbye?_

  
Ian takes a deep breath.

_  
Are you going back?_

  
"No,” Ian says, flexing his grip on the steering wheel. “No, I’m not planning on it.”

  
Mickey looks at him a long time, then he shrugs.

  
"Ok then,” he says, tilting his head back against the seat and closing his eyes again. “Pull over at the next gas station.”

  
-

  
"Off, off, get this—fucking—thing—bitch—”

  
Ian laughs between pants, shoving Mickey back against the door and slotting a knee between his legs and okay, yeah, maybe the gas station bathroom wasn't the smartest place to get off, but hell, they’ve fucked in grimier places.

  
Man, he’s gonna miss the roof of that abandoned building. 

  
"Get your fucking shirt off,” Mickey growls again, mouthing at Ian’s jaw. Ian shakes his head, trying to capture Mickey’s mouth again, fingers fumbling with his belt.

  
"Gotta be quick,” he says, pressing their foreheads together so hard it’s painful, but he can't help it. He wants to feel every tremor and shake in Mickey’s body.

  
Mickey grinds down on Ian’s leg with a soft moan before Ian draws his cock out of his jeans, thumbing the precum on the head. Mickey’s already rubbing the heel of his hand where Ian’s cock is straining against his jeans and the friction is just enough that Ian could come from that alone, but he wants Mickey’s hand on him for real. 

  
He stutters his hips forward a couple times and Mickey gets the point, starts to unbutton and unzip and damn, they were good at this. Ian was no virgin when they first started up, but they invented a whole language between just the two of them, what gestures meant when words weren’t available. Mickey always got it, and Ian missed someone knowing the whole of him like that. 

  
"There’s a knock on the door.

  
"Fucking occupied!” Mickey yells, and Ian chuckles into the side of his neck, mouthing at the sweat-slick skin.

  
"Hang on,” Ian says, when he feels his balls start to tighten up. He reaches over Mickey's shoulder for the paper towel dispenser. Thank god for tiny, non-eco-friendly bathrooms.

  
"Good call,” Mickey says, smirking when he sees the wadded up paper towels. Ian twists his wrist, sliding his palm up and over the head of Mickey’s cock, running his thumb down the underside. He loves the way Mickey’s face goes slack, the open mouth, the furrow between his brows. He has to kiss him again, especially when Mickey speeds up his own hand on Ian, and Ian feels his orgasm wash over him in rolling, shuddering waves.

  
They clean themselves up after a minute, just as there’s another knock, this one louder and more deliberate.

  
"Be right out!” Ian calls this time, feeling dopey and cheerful and exceptionally satisfied. Mickey rolls his eyes at him.

  
A family of four stares at them as they exit, the mother grabbing the two kids by the wrists and pulling them close.

  
"Sorry you guys missed the show,” Mickey says, winking. Ian shoves at his shoulders to get him walking, but he’s grinning.

  
-

  
"Hey, how you doing?" Mickey asks later that day, when they’ve switched back and Mickey has one hand on the wheel, one arm hanging out the window. "You seem, uh, seem calmer."

  
Ian counts the mile markers, tries not to roll his eyes, tamps down on his rage. "Less crazy?"

  
"Didn't say that." Mickey takes his hand off the wheel to shove him. "But yeah, other than being on the run with a fugitive, you seem pretty level."

  
"I've been taking my meds," Ian says, wishes he was better at saying it in a way that doesn't sound like defeat. He knows, he knows, fuck, but. But. 

  
"You bring 'em?"

  
Ian pulls two bottles out of his hoodie pocket, shakes them in the air for Mickey. "Two of these in the morning, two of the ones in my bag at night."

  
Mickey glances at him, but just grunts. "Good."

  
"I've been going to therapy," Ian tells him. He decided earlier it was an important thing to say out loud. Mickey might be on the run forever, but Ian has his own life sentence, and he wants Mickey to know what he's getting himself into.

  
Maybe he's feeling a little defensive, too, if he's honest. Wants to push Mickey just to see how far he can. It's not too late, Mickey can turn the car around or just pull over and drop Ian on the side of the road, or—

  
"They probably have therapists in Mexico," Mickey says, after a beat. "We can find you a new one."

  
We. "So you don't think it's stupid? A waste of time?"  


  
"I dunno, is it helping you?" Mickey asks. Ian hesitates, then nods. "Then it's not a waste of time."  


  
Ian huffs, disbelieving, and Mickey takes his eyes off the road to raise an eyebrow at him.  


  
“You know they got prison couselors, right?” Mickey says. “Psychologists and shit. I mean, not everyone goes, but some of the guys that do say it, you know. Helps to talk through stuff, or whatever.”  


  
"Really?"  


  
"Mmhm. Figure there must be something to all that shit, right?"

  
"Yeah," Ian says, looking at Mickey, marveling at him, trying to memorize every single inch of him now, in this moment. "Yeah, must be.”

  
-

  
Ian calls Lip back early the morning before they hit the border, while Mickey has taken their latest snag, a late 90s Corolla, to go pick up coffee. Ian steps out into the early morning light, shivering, pulling his sleeves over his hands and tucking his hands into his armpits, phone cradled between his shoulder and ear. Leans on the cold railing of the motel’s balcony.

  
Lip answers on the fourth ring. “Took you long enough.”

  
"Sorry.” Ian ducks his head, kicking lightly at the railing.

  
"You, uh, you around? Got a few hours before my shift starts at Patsy’s, was gonna see if Fi could hook us up with some omelettes.”

  
Ian grins a little. “Nah, I’m a little busy this morning.”

  
A pause. “Ok.”

  
"I might be kinda busy for a while, actually.”

  
The pause is longer this time. “Yeah, I, uh. I kind of figured that.”

  
"You did?”

  
"Doesn’t take a genius to guess. Debs thought you might be at work, overnights, but your uniform’s here.”

  
Ian braces himself for the question, but all he hears on the line is Lip taking a sip of coffee.

  
"I’m not having an episode,” Ian says, clearly and as loudly as he can into the quiet dawn. He wants, badly, for Lip to believe him. “This isn’t like last time.”

  
"When you ran off and joined the army?” Lip says baldly. “No, I know, I feel much better knowing you’re only escaping with Chicago’s public enemy number one this time.”

  
"Lip—“

  
"I know, Ian,” Lip cuts him off. “You tell me you’re good, so you’re good, ok?”

  
Ian exhales. “Ok. Give everyone a hug from me.”

  
"Will do,” Lip says. “Listen, Fiona would kick my ass if I didn’t say this, so…you know you can always come home, right?”

  
Below him, their beat up car pulls into the lot and Mickey steps out, a bag of McDonald’s and a drink holder with two cups balanced precariously in his hands. He squints, looking up, puts the bag down on the roof of the car so he has a free hand to flip Ian off.

  
Ian grins so wide it hurts. “Yeah, I know.”

  
-

  
In the end, it’s painfully easy to get across the border. Mickey’s initial contact had been right: they were going in the direction no one seems to have a problem with. Especially not if you’re a pale white ginger with no record, Ian finds out. 

  
"This your first time?” the guard asks Ian while he looks over his papers. A real passport he’d gotten months ago, when his coworker Ethan was talking about a vacation to Europe, and a real ID because he needed one to drive the EMT truck.

  
"Yes, sir,” Ian says, clearly, while maintaining eye contact. A little manners go a long way.

  
"Vacation?”

  
"Yeah, had some time off work.”

  
"Enjoy.” The guard gives him a small smile, hands back his ID and passport. Ian nods, and pulls forward as he’s waved on. 

  
He drives for five miles, then five more just to be sure, before he pulls over.

  
"Fuck,” Mickey says, when Ian pops the trunk. He squints up at Ian, shading his eyes from the sun. “You make a point to hit every pothole on this road, or what?”

  
"Just the big ones,” Ian says. He grabs Mickey’s hand, pulls him up and out of the trunk. “Didn't want you to get soft on me.”

  
"Nothing soft about me, Gallagher,” Mickey says, grinning, and he reels Ian in by the collar for a kiss.

  
After a moment, Ian pulls back, grinning, resting his forehead against Mickey’s. “Later. Let’s get ourselves to the ocean.”

  
"Holding you to that,” Mickey mutters. Then he steps away, snagging the keys from Ian’s hand. “And I’m fucking driving. Way you’re at it, we’d wind up with a flat before we make it another five miles.

  
"Whatever you say, Mick.” Ian hops in the passenger's seat, finds his sunglasses tucked into the door pocket and slides them on. He crosses his arms and gets comfortable, hears Mickey start the engine. “Wake me when we get there.”

  
Later, Ian will learn that Mexico is like the hottest day of summer in Chicago, the sun so bright everything seems bleached out. He'll make Mickey stop at a surf shop even though they said they should stay out of the most touristy areas, just because he wants to get Mickey one of those button down floral shirts and a pair of flip flops. They'll spend their first night with a bottle of tequila, on the floor of their craigslist apartment they paid for in cash, doing shots—first from the bottle, then off each other. Ian will take a mouthful and tug Mickey in, pressing the sharp liquid into his mouth before pressing him to the ground. He'll fuck Mickey loudly on that floor until they both have bruises on their knees and hips and then collapse in bed, tangled around each other, impossible to separate.  


  
They’ll sleep late, and Ian will cook them breakfast in the morning before they head down to the ocean. 

  
For now he just leans his head back against the headrest and stares at the light glinting off Mickey's sunglasses until the motion of the car lulls him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://mayyouwalk.tumblr.com) bitching about shameless and, lately, stranger things


End file.
